the poem I would never find a name for

The violence, the fear and the guilt
the value of the blood that's been spilt.
Who can best guess it? The one who has merit
facing the Zenith, innit? Shit, the princess.
I woke her, my moker is dull but far from silent,
Thor thought by himself, remorseful.
the previous day he had eaten beans. like a man.
it was all his fault.

the violence, the fear an the guild feuds, the gills he was growing and the guilders Guillaume owe him since he guiled him into Gilberts mansnatch.
Shit, he thought, in the tram. But the opportunity passed.
I said 'god damn these' an got headache, now in the quit of waning.
Come one. the more I speak the more important it becomes.

so there you have it, roving cowboys.



Peace, love and happiness.